On Being a Granny-In-Waiting

I had a bit of a stare in the mirror yesterday. Do I look old enough to be a granny, I thought. Of course, it didn't help that I was looking at myself in the changing room mirror at the swimming pool having just completed an hour's swim. Swimming, I've discovered, doesn't bring me out in a rosy glow - it brings me out in blotchy hives. And my hair was wet and straggly and my face was purple with exertion. My legs and shoulders were covered with scratches and puncture marks courtesy of Pandora Kitten and her flinging herself at me in an 'I love you so much Mum I have to cling on really tight,' way. And my eyes were a bit bloodshot. I thought, I must get around to doing something about my post-baby tummy, but then trying to sort that out 21 years after my last pregnancy might prove a bit tricksy plus I'd lose the shelf for resting my cup of tea on in the evenings so the sit ups can go take a hike.

I have been giving some thought about what I shall be called after the baby arrives. I don't want to be 'Nan' or 'Nanna' because that always reminds me of that stupid St Bernard in Peter Pan and I'd never be able to carry off wearing a mop cap. I toyed with 'Percival' or 'Dave' but certain people considered these options too ridiculous for words. My own grandmothers were 'Gran' and 'Grandma'. Grandma was very distant and we never had much to do with her. I don't think she liked being a grandmother despite having 6 children of her own and 16 grandchildren and 5 great grandchildren when she died. Gran, on the other hand, was great and I spent a lot of time in her company whilst growing up. She is my guardian angel. In honour of her I would like to be a Gran.

Then I thought, I could be a 'Grandmama!' That would be fun! Grandmama's are elegant and wear bloomers and corsets. They take their grandchildren to gymkhanas and afternoon tea at Claridges. 'Grandmama's' have specific standards, and believe in etiquette and manners and doing things properly. And most importantly, because Grandmama's do all these things, they can also get away with being eccentric.

'Oh, take no notice of Grandmama,' they'll say. 'It's just her eccentric way.'

And people will know it is perfectly normal that I have a collection of wallabies in my back garden.

But I really like 'Granny.' It makes me laugh to think a small person will shout 'Granneeeeeeeeey' at me across a park when we are out playing frisbee or desperately trying to fly a kite and I fall over, flashing my bloomers at the world. So 'Granny' is the favourite at the moment.

So do I look old enough to be a granny? Should I start colouring my hair again, maybe dabble in Botox, or pay a small fortune for magical potions that promise the return of dewy youth?

Of course not! Once I'd got home, slapped on a bit of moisturiser, dried my hair and had a bit of a sing-a-long to Classic Gold on the Radio I decided my age was, well, ageless. My mind feels the same it did in my twenties and I can put my hands on the floor whilst keeping my legs straight. I can swim a length of the pool in 35 seconds and I am blessed with the genetics of a good skin. Okay, certain bits are heading south, but only as far as maybe the middle of France and certainly nowhere near the equator. My hormones may be running low but I am fully conversant in 'gettin' on down wiv da kidz' speak, although my grandchild, of course, will speak properly. Andy and I do some pretty funky dancing sometimes and I think my grey hair adds a certain enigma to the Granny equation. Besides, I really can't be bothered to waste hours of my life being a slave to the dye bottle again.

I think I'll do.